The pace we run is easy and we talk about STEM Club, which is run by the high school science teacher. She tells me all about the robot they’re building for some valley-wide showcase. We finish in eight minutes and Emma’s pumped she was able to shave eight seconds off her last recorded time. I’m pumped that my week is officially over and I can go home.
She picks up her backpack and runs for the car, calling for Nola to hurry up so they can eat dinner before she’s meeting with friends to trick-or-treat.
Nola holds out the paused stopwatch and my fingers skim hers as I grab it. In Major League Baseball there’s a lot of touching. Guys are a weird breed, and over my career I’ve rubbed heads, participated in chest bumps, patted butts, and given more high fives than I can count. And Nola’s like my old teammates; she tolerates me but could do without my existence just as easily. But our most subtle of accidental brushes leaves more of an impression on my system than anything before it. I swear she felt that little jolt too, because a hint of pink colors her cheeks. “Thanks for doing that. It’s . . . it’s been a day and sometimes . . . well.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad I was better prepared today,” I say in a callback to last night’s attire and wave my hand up my joggers and school-logoed sweatshirt.
She lets out a single laugh and then asks, “You’re not really handing out candy tonight, are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I shrug. “I bought those big bags ofcandy from Costco and it’s Halloween. I thought that’s the expectation.” It’s been on my radar all week. Stella had mentioned a few preschools were going to trick-or-treat at the assisted living home today, so I dropped a couple of bags off for her and Opal this morning. At lunch, I put in my pizza order so I could pick it up early on my way home, and I have every intention of being the good neighbor tonight who keeps their light on and answers the door.I loved this holiday growing up and for once, I’m around to participate.
“Well,” she carefully considers her words. “You live alone, right?”
Is she trying to politely ask if I’m dating somebody? Because, Nola, you had no problem kissing me without knowing if I was attached—why would you care now? Besides, what would a girlfriend have to do with handing out Halloween candy? I paste a charming, flirty smile on.
“Are you asking if I’m single?” I waggle my eyebrows at her. “See something you like? Dying to know where I live so you can ‘accidentally’ stop by with Emma tonight?”
“No,” Nola’s quick to say. “You really don’t know anything about kids, do you?” She sighs. “Of course you don’t. Let me save you the embarrassment of going from the nice guy who keeps to himself to the neighborhood creeper. Single men shouldn’t be passing out candy in this day and age. Leave a bowl of candy on a chair by your door with a sign welcoming kids to take a piece or two.”
Her advice seems stupid and, quite frankly, hurts my feelings. I’m a good guy. Then again, she is a parent and would know optics better than me. My street has a bunch of kids on it and everybody’s gone all out to be festive. I’ve never owned decorations for any holiday, aside from a simple tree at Christmas, and this year I made an effort. My lawn boasts twodragon inflatables and a large skeleton. I bought some pumpkins to put on the steps up to my front door. Earlier this week, I even strung some orange pumpkin lights on the porch. What she explains makes me feel a little sheepish and oddly bummed. “And then, what? I sit inside and pretend I’m not home?”
“That, or you could go to Gin and Bear It. I bet you could find a lonely nurse”—she winks on the word nurse—“and have a fun night.”
The way she says it leaves no hint of jealousy or curiosity about that becoming my plan. When she blushed a minute ago, I must have been mistaken, along with every time she’s been the slightest bit flirty toward me. Again I’m bummed, but I shake it off. There are so many reasons why Nola isn’t the kind of woman I should become interested in anyway. This exchange has been the perfect reminder.
“Maybe I’ll do that. Tom has said the bar gets packed on nights like these, and I’m exactly what the ladies are looking for.” I meet her nonchalance and watch Nola’s mouth shift subtly.
“There’s a large market for uncertified P.E. teachers?” She starts walking backward toward the parking lot where Emma’s waiting.
“Hey! I got my certification!” I remind her, throwing my arms out wide and give a grin. “Pretty sure I’m one of a kind, Nola. And women love a unicorn.”
An elongated “Okay,” is all she says before turning toward the car. A few steps later, she calls over her shoulder, “Get ready to bring your Bingo game tomorrow, Max. I always win anything I put my mind to.”
7
NOLA
Reese’s mom, Julie, pulls into my driveway with a packed minivan of tweens, ready for a day at the indoor amusement center. I went around my daughter’s wishes and made a goodwill offer to go along to help supervise, but she turned me down. Julie told me her husband and sons were making a day of tailgating in the Boise State parking lot before going into the stadium and this got her out of the house for a little self-care with some audiobooks.Moving around the family fun zone after the girls would be easy.
Emma climbs into the van and immediately jumps into the conversation with her friends, while Julie rolls down her window.
“Whole day to yourself—what’s the plan?” she asked, pushing her sunglasses up on her head.
I smooth down the front of my chunky navy blue sweater tucked into high-waisted bronze-colored, wide-leg pants. “I’m forever catching up on house stuff and probably should rake the yard now that most of the leaves are down.”
Her lips hike up. “I appreciate a woman who gets dressed up for a Saturday of housework.”
Of all the school parents I’m friends with, Julie is the one I’m closest to, but I’ve always kept things close to the chest. She’s married and has a whole life that doesn’t include a needy single mom brain dumping all her thoughts. And where this is not even a thing worth mentioning, I’m mum. At least I don’t think it’s a thing? I don’t know why Max invited me to go with him today or what I’m walking into, but it feels premature to give any kind of mention. I look down at my clothes. “Oh, yeah. Right after lunch, there’s a volunteer thing I got roped into going to.”
She slides the glasses back over her eyes and gives me a subtle nod. “You don’t have to tell me, Nola. I know you like to be secretive, but whatever it is, you deserve it. Enjoy!” As she rolls her window up, I hear her tell the girls to double-check that they’re buckled, and One Direction fills the van.
I wave them off and head inside to pull up the internet search I’d started last night. The night of the bachelorette party, Max was just a stranger in a bar who wasverygood looking and seemed way out of my league. I kissed him on a dare, never expecting to see him again and that was that. He morphed into Coach, the mean P.E. teacher at my child’s charter school, who (initially) gave her a B for the quarter. Then he became Max, the unfortunately sexy pirate who asked me to meet him for Bingo at the assisted living center up the road from the school.
Before me now are a dozen open tabs, showcasing a million articles, photos, and interviews on Maxford Hutchings, the disgraced Texas Armadillo third baseman. It’s been a treasure trove of reading—each piece explaining him as some legendary man. Once at the top of his game and twicenamed MVP for the league, he got caught up in a doping scandal. During his eighty-day suspension, his contract expired and the team passed on renegotiations.The league more or less showed him the door and his career disappeared overnight.
What I can’t find is why he moved to Boise—his online presence ended with the dismissal from the Armadillos, almost like he ceased to exist. There are lots of fluff pieces about his formative years I skim over. Everything talks about being raised in Palm Springs, California. He lost his parents in a small plane crash when he was around Emma’s age; his grandparents raised him and two sisters. He’s a twin, afraid of snakes, and can juggle. I simultaneously can’t stop digging but also need to look away and let him tell me about his life on his own terms.
What I’ve found explains his aloof and gruff persona. He offers smiles but they’re guarded and his good cop/bad cop classroom management routine is straight out of what he knows from years in a locker room. Understanding him better makes going to Bingo this afternoon easier. He’s a guy who is still reeling from his fall from grace and maybe is a little lost in life. This resonates with me.
